


Jock Itch

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Preseries, Underage Sex, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-23
Updated: 2007-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's ultimate fantasy had been more like, "So me and Claudia Schiffer are on this desert island..." But Sam's was just, "I wanna blow you in your baseball uniform."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jock Itch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Summer Blackout](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/11476) by Nutkin. 



_Crack!_

It's good. It's good. It's good! Well, it's okay. He coulda got to second base on that hit, probably.

Dean's got sweat trickling down his temples, and it feels like the dust he's kicked up from jogging all over the field is sticking to his face. Even though the sun's going down, now, leaving the sky this violent pink, it's still too freakin' hot. For a while, Sam was cooperatively pitching for him, but it's been at least an hour since Sam swiped the damp hair plastered to his forehead aside and panted, "I'm gonna finish my book, Dean. In the _shade_."

"Wuss," Dean had said, but he's feelin' the heat, too. Screw this. It was supposed to be like practice, but he's given enough of a performance. Even his coach would be satisfied.

He wades out into the grassy outfield to get the ball, then gathers up the bat and glove and meanders toward the bleachers, where Sam's been parked, holding his book up like people on TV do when they're pretending they're reading but they're obviously not. Jeez, Dean's surprised he's not holding it upside-down, too. He eyes Sam deliberately, bat over his shoulder.

"You not done yet?"

"Nah, it's - pretty long," says Sam, eyeing Dean over the spine of the book.

"Yeah, I bet," snorts Dean, and drops his bat in front of the little set of bleachers. 

Behind him, the field and almost the entire park is deserted, except for a chorus of crickets and a couple of dedicated joggers, 'cause it's about eight-thirty and _90210_ or whatever is on. He collapses down onto the step below Sam and leans back on his elbows, splaying his body out lazily. Sam sits there, silent, as Dean pulls off his cap and pushes a hand through his hair, which is hot and damp, and hopes for a breeze to come along and cool his face. He's pretty aware that Sam is watching his every move, but he doesn't give him the time of day - just lets his knees hang wide open and the sweat roll down his back under his shirt as he tucks his cap back on.

"Man," he drawls tiredly, "it is too damn hot for this uniform."

Sam studiously turns a page in his book.

"I need a cold friggin' shower."

Nothin'. Crickets. Dude, this was Sam's idea. How many more lures does he have to cast?

"... I gotta get outta this jock strap."

"You wore that too?" Sam blurts, and Dean grins, canines a-plenty.

"'Course I did. You don't wear a uniform without your jock strapped."

That's it. Sam's finally lowering his book, and when Dean glances up over his shoulder - yeah. Sammy's eyes are definitely glued between his wide-open legs, and he's got this stupid expression on his face. He smirks and sways a knee, just casual-like.

"You wanna see it?"

And Sam - he just sits there for a few seconds, then shoves his book into his black Jansport and nods, earnest-eyed and lip-biting.

Dean casts a look around the field again, this time looking at it with eyes that are used to scanning for temperature fluctuations and orbs and the shadows of things that go bump in the night. They're pretty damn alone; not a single rugrat on the big toy or swings or slides, just a couple of people taking leisurely evening strolls past the field or jogging along with headphones and heart rate monitors on. It's pretty obvious by now that no Little League has a game tonight, or they would've been here already. They could totally get away with this.

Sam's on his feet, his long tan gazelle legs sticking out of his dorky khaki shorts, his sneakers dusted with dirt. He's skinny and growing like a weed and his hair's way too long right now, and it's just this tousled mop of waves with little sun-bleached places that glint in the twilight. He looks like he's in a hurry as he leaps off the bottom bleacher, and Dean's cock, under his cup, suddenly flushes. Yeah, now he's really gotta get this jock strap off. Jesus.

"Hey," he says, sitting up straight. Sam looks at him, and for a second, there's just the orange blare of the last sunlight of the day and the two of them staring at each other. Dean jerks his head at the bleachers. "Under there."

Sam's grip on the strap of his backpack works awkwardly, and as his eyes widen and peer over the expanse of the seats, Dean can just hear it: _Dean, no. We'll get caught!_

But instead, Sam says, "Okay."

And Dean's cup is suddenly way too freakin' small.

He follows Sam silently around the bleachers, wiping his sweaty hands off on either side of his own ass, hardly believing they're doing this. That this is all Sammy's idea, what he'd said he wanted. Dean's ultimate fantasy had been more like, _So me and Claudia Schiffer are on this desert island..._ But Sam's was just, _I wanna blow you in your baseball uniform._

Under the bleachers, it isn't exactly cooler, but it's darker and it feels like a cave, especially with the big old elm trees that loom around it to give the seats shade. There's long, faded grasses that nobody's thought to trim, some weeds growing up in twists around the poles holding up the seats, and one of Dean's cleats hit what feels like a glass bottle -- probably a beer bottle, 'cause nobody drinks Coke out of bottles anymore. There's probably cigarette butts and stuff, too, but most of what Dean can see is just snatches of Sam's red Mossimo t-shirt and his ruddy hair and long slices of the park toys, if he peers out the slits between the stacks of seats. 

When they're well under -- well-hidden -- Sam turns, and that little perv says, "Lemmie see this jock strap."

Dean obediently slumps against the nearest pole and shoves his hand into his pants, past his tucked-in uniform shirt. As Sam creeps toward him, he digs and struggles for a second, then pulls out the rubber cup, his sigh coming out more tense than relieved.

"Is that it?" Sam, who didn't even want to play t-ball in third grade, seems wary.

"Cup," Dean says lowly. "Goes inside the strap, for protection. Was gettin' tight in there."

Sam sighs, then, and it hits Dean's face like a warm breeze; damn, he got close fast.

"I wanna..." he murmurs, and then his hand is on Dean's hip and sliding down to squeeze at the bulge of Dean's prick through the uniform's clinging white pants and the pouch of his jock strap, which is quickly getting filled with the curve of his cock. Under the touch, Dean groans, sharp and throaty, and fills out further, going from a cover-it-with-your-Trapper-Keeper chubby to full-on hard, stretching out his pants and the strap awkwardly. Sam's hand squeezes him, and -- how was this Sam's fantasy and not his? God, this is fucking hot. Sure, the park is pretty empty, but there are joggers just across the field and they have no clue he's under here, hard as hell, about to get his cock sucked by his kid brother. He clenches his sweaty cup in his hand and pants up at Sam, who's all standing up straight and taller than him.

"Gonna suck me, Sammy?"

There's a shudder in Sam's voice, and Dean can tell it comes directly from his shoulders. "Yeah."

And he just kind of folds down in front of Dean, and there's this thump of his knees hitting something that Dean thinks is the canvas of his backpack, and then, he buries his nose in against the bulge of Dean's cock and sniffs, loud. That little move has Dean's dick twitching, moving in the confines of the strap, and he knows Sam can feel it against the bridge of his nose. He probably smells sweaty and like the plastic of the cup, but Sam sighs out and his breath bleeds hot and wet through the material and into Dean's skin as he mutters, "I can smell your cock."

" _Jeez_ -us," mumbles Dean desperately, his tongue clumsy and his teeth clenched.

Sam's fingers are working his pants open, then, brown and long and nimble, popping open the double buttons and pulling apart the fly, and Dean can feel him huff out on the bare skin revealed by the way his cock is shoving his jock strap up and off his body, ridiculous and heavy.

"Oh my God," Sam moans, nosing at him again and making Dean grit right back, "You like that, Sam?"

Instead of answering, Sam's hooking his index finger into the pathetically stretched pouch and tugging it aside, making Dean's prick pop out and strike him on the cheekbone.

It hits Dean all over again, right then -- they're at the fucking park, under the bleachers where the parents of Little Leaguers sit and eat hot dogs and yell encouraging things at their future lawyers, doctors, and presidents of the United States, and Sam's on his knees just about worshipping him, all over this lame, too-tight baseball uniform. This is going to be just about the quickest blowjob ever, he realizes dully, the blood that's rushing around in his ears this loud roar not unlike the air conditioning unit back at their apartment.

Sam's panting like he just scrambled around all the bases at top speed, and he just slowly fists Dean's cock with his knuckly hand, staring -- he must be looking at the way it's poking out from the white material of his pants and jock strap, Dean guesses, then has to grit his teeth, because Sam's thing for blowing him in his uniform's sorta starting to become his thing, too. He shifts his feet against the ground, trying not to pump up into Sam's warm, sweaty fingers, and then Sam shocks him by totally bypassing his cock in favor of smashing his tongue in against the short wisps of hair at the base.

" _Dude_." Dean's aching in Sam's hand, now, and vaguely aware that he could possibly be whining, and then Sam slurps up his dick like it's one of those Dole things he obsessed on last summer and just does it, right then, all sudden and hot. Just goes right down on him in this wet sucking slide, taking him in with a tight exhale and then glaring up at him with eyes that are too dark to see, except for the dangerous glint of them.

Kinda like he gets good at most things, Sam's pretty good at this by now. Way better than he has any right to be, especially when he gets into it, and he knows just how to breathe, just how to pull up and suck at the same time and make Dean's eyes roll back in his head. He knows, whether by instinct or 'cause he's gotten ahold of porn, how to pump Dean's prick at the base and suck in tandem, and even when he's sloppy, it's still good just 'cause it's _Sam_.

"This what you wanted, huh?" Dean mutters, staring down at Sam, unable to look anywhere else at all. 

When Sam pulls back, Dean's cock glistens with his spit, and Sam breathes, throat thick and congested, "God, you don't even know."

Dean bites down into his lower lip, and Sam's tongue is this shining, cotton candy pink flash around the blood-darkened head of his cock, and Jesus, he's going to come just looking at it.

"Back off," he grinds out, and after way too long a minute of totally not backing off, Sam pops off him with a smacking noise, precome clinging in the corners of his mouth, and darts up to press his mouth to Dean's. Their hands are both scrabbling over his cock, then, tugging and clumsy, and Sam's tongue tastes like him only muskier, somehow sweaty and sharp and _like his fucking jock strap_ \-- and at that, Dean's buckling at the knees and shooting off, thick and wet, all over their fingers for what feels like a year.

"Dean," hisses Sam intensely, "jeez."

"Shut up," wheezes Dean, and pulls down his cap over his eyes.

Sam's just given him the best blowjob he's ever had.

It's silent for a minute, except for Dean's ragged breaths and some nearby cricket that's inspired to serenade them, and it lingers on in this endless twilight, just him and Sam, hidden away, breathing together.

Then Sam mutters, "I like the front of it."

With Herculean effort, Dean focuses and looks down to where Sam's index finger is snagging at the pouch of his jock strap.

"Yeah?" Dean hooks him in by the belt loops and chuckles, breathless, as he pulls Sam into his hips and feels how freakin' hard he is in his schoolboy khaki. "Well, just wait 'till you see the back."


End file.
